Gordon Swan knew the ringing phone—at his house, at 6:30 in the morning—did not mean good things. So did his wife, who said simply, “I hate your job.”
“Four years until I can retire,” Gordon said. “Just four.”
“I still hate your job.”
Gordon picked up the phone. “This better be important.”
It was Theresa McNaney. “I need to meet you in your office in an hour.”
Gordon felt his jaw tighten. “I need to meet you in your office in an hour,” she repeated.
“That’s not happening,” Gordon replied. “I’ll be in at 7:30 on Monday. We can meet at 7:45 or 10:00. But I’m not meeting with you today.”
“Deputy Director Swan, I was assured we would have your full cooperation and engagement—”
“7:45 AM or 10:00 AM Monday. Don’t call me at home again.” Gordon hung up the phone.
“Wrong number,” he said, settling back down into the bed.
“Hmph.”
“I know, I know—you hate my job. You and me both.”
“They’ll call back.”
“If they do, I’m going to tell them the same thing.”
“Hmph.”
The phone did ring again, about five minutes later. Gordon felt his heart sink. This wasn’t McNaney. This wasn’t Voss. One of them had just put in the call that had chain-reacted into this one. He knew it. He would, he thought, be going into the office on a Sunday after all.
He picked up the phone. “Swan,” he said.
“Gordon.” It was Bill Webster. Director of the FBI. The big boss. Oh, yeah, he was going to work. “I need you to cooperate with Theresa McNaney.”
Still, he had to try. “Sir, I don’t even have my agents assigned yet—”
“Then you call them at home or at their hotels or wherever they are and you bring them in and assign them. If they wanted to spend all their weekends lounging by the pool, they picked the wrong career.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I do not want to hear from Ms. McNaney again. I want this resolved. You understand you need to be circumspect.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Part of being circumspect includes not antagonizing McNaney. You understand?”
“Understood.”
“I’ve assured her you will meet her, at your office, in an hour. And you will. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want this wrapped up and out of the Bureau quietly. I know you’ll get the right agents. I need you not to antagonize the NSA or the DOD so that they start taking their problems with the Bureau elsewhere. Theresa McNaney is not shy about causing trouble. I don’t want her to cause us any trouble.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Don’t let me hear from her again.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a click. Director Webster had hung up the phone. Gordon slowly put the phone back down in its cradle. “Shit,” he murmured.
“Hmph,” Helen said. “You’re going to the office, aren’t you.” It was a statement.
“That was William Webster. Calling me at home.”
“So you’re going to the office.”
“Yes, I’m going to the office. If William Webster is calling me at home on a Sunday, yes, I am sure as shit going to the office. I don’t want to, no, but I am going to go. And Theresa McNaney is going to feel my pain.”
“Good for her,” Helen replied. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t care. I do know you need to be home with your family on Sunday.”
“Four more years,” Gordon said. “Just four.”
“That’s too long,” Helen said, and turned over, pulling the sheets up around her. “Go. Go and get back.”
Gordon grunted, getting out of bed. He headed toward the bathroom. Oh, yes, indeed, Theresa McNaney—and anybody with her—was going to feel his pain. If this had been about something important—and sometimes it was—he wouldn’t have minded so much. But this wasn’t important—it was just stupid. The only thing remotely important about it was keeping the whole thing as quiet as possible. Bill Webster might as well have said it directly: don’t you dare let anybody find out were devoting time and money to something so godawful stupid, Gordon. Don’t you dare.
He knew that was going to be easier said than done. He knew the agents to assign, and he knew how to keep the paperwork at headquarters safely ambiguous, and Voss obviously wouldn’t be a problem. McNaney, though—she was loud and she was a bully, and she didn’t care who knew it.
“Four years until I can retire,” Gordon said. “Just four.”
“I still hate your job.”
Gordon picked up the phone. “This better be important.”
It was Theresa McNaney. “I need to meet you in your office in an hour.”
Gordon felt his jaw tighten. “I need to meet you in your office in an hour,” she repeated.
“That’s not happening,” Gordon replied. “I’ll be in at 7:30 on Monday. We can meet at 7:45 or 10:00. But I’m not meeting with you today.”
“Deputy Director Swan, I was assured we would have your full cooperation and engagement—”
“7:45 AM or 10:00 AM Monday. Don’t call me at home again.” Gordon hung up the phone.
“Wrong number,” he said, settling back down into the bed.
“Hmph.”
“I know, I know—you hate my job. You and me both.”
“They’ll call back.”
“If they do, I’m going to tell them the same thing.”
“Hmph.”
The phone did ring again, about five minutes later. Gordon felt his heart sink. This wasn’t McNaney. This wasn’t Voss. One of them had just put in the call that had chain-reacted into this one. He knew it. He would, he thought, be going into the office on a Sunday after all.
He picked up the phone. “Swan,” he said.
“Gordon.” It was Bill Webster. Director of the FBI. The big boss. Oh, yeah, he was going to work. “I need you to cooperate with Theresa McNaney.”
Still, he had to try. “Sir, I don’t even have my agents assigned yet—”
“Then you call them at home or at their hotels or wherever they are and you bring them in and assign them. If they wanted to spend all their weekends lounging by the pool, they picked the wrong career.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I do not want to hear from Ms. McNaney again. I want this resolved. You understand you need to be circumspect.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Part of being circumspect includes not antagonizing McNaney. You understand?”
“Understood.”
“I’ve assured her you will meet her, at your office, in an hour. And you will. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want this wrapped up and out of the Bureau quietly. I know you’ll get the right agents. I need you not to antagonize the NSA or the DOD so that they start taking their problems with the Bureau elsewhere. Theresa McNaney is not shy about causing trouble. I don’t want her to cause us any trouble.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Don’t let me hear from her again.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a click. Director Webster had hung up the phone. Gordon slowly put the phone back down in its cradle. “Shit,” he murmured.
“Hmph,” Helen said. “You’re going to the office, aren’t you.” It was a statement.
“That was William Webster. Calling me at home.”
“So you’re going to the office.”
“Yes, I’m going to the office. If William Webster is calling me at home on a Sunday, yes, I am sure as shit going to the office. I don’t want to, no, but I am going to go. And Theresa McNaney is going to feel my pain.”
“Good for her,” Helen replied. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t care. I do know you need to be home with your family on Sunday.”
“Four more years,” Gordon said. “Just four.”
“That’s too long,” Helen said, and turned over, pulling the sheets up around her. “Go. Go and get back.”
Gordon grunted, getting out of bed. He headed toward the bathroom. Oh, yes, indeed, Theresa McNaney—and anybody with her—was going to feel his pain. If this had been about something important—and sometimes it was—he wouldn’t have minded so much. But this wasn’t important—it was just stupid. The only thing remotely important about it was keeping the whole thing as quiet as possible. Bill Webster might as well have said it directly: don’t you dare let anybody find out were devoting time and money to something so godawful stupid, Gordon. Don’t you dare.
He knew that was going to be easier said than done. He knew the agents to assign, and he knew how to keep the paperwork at headquarters safely ambiguous, and Voss obviously wouldn’t be a problem. McNaney, though—she was loud and she was a bully, and she didn’t care who knew it.
He could just see her in the halls of power, yelling into the phone about the FBI and little green men as a pack of gray-suited fellows wrote feverishly in their notebooks, fellows with the word “PRESS” written in large black letters on a white card stuck in the band of their fedoras. He could also see himself opening the Sunday paper, reading the fat, black headlines in two-inch letters: Rogue Deputy Director, Gordon Swan, Responsible for Huge Waste of Tax Payer Dollars, Says a Concerned William Webster. Despite her concern over whether or not a central conference room in the middle of FBI headquarters was secure, Swan didn’t think McNaney was very discrete, when it came down to it. The temperamental types usually weren’t. They were always too pissed off to worry about discretion. About who might overhear them when they were yelling at the top of their lungs at somebody else.
Gordon sighed, getting into the shower. Whatever grim satisfaction there was in the idea of putting McNaney in her place was not enough to make up for the rest of the day, which looked to be long and unpleasant. Both at work and at home.
Just four more years, he thought, turning on the hot water. Just four more years.
He showered quickly and got dressed. Helen was still in bed. When he kissed her head softly, she grunted. “Go,” she said. “Go now and get back. Don’t stay there all day.”
“I’m not planning on it,” Gordon said, opening the bedroom door.
“That means you’ll be gone all day,” Helen said, turning over so she was facing away from the door. Away from Gordon. “Go on. The longer you stand there like a damn fool, the longer before you get back. Go.”
“Be back soon,” Gordon said—not so entirely sure himself that would actually be the case—and stepped out into the hall. He poked his head into Emily’s room. She was still asleep. He kissed her on her forehead, hating his job again. Absolutely despising it. Wishing he had gone into retail sales, or perhaps sanitation, instead. Then, he listened at Jeff’s door—he could hear him playing some sort of video game on his Atari and decided just to go ahead and leave—he didn’t want to have to explain to Jeff that he had to leave. Or have to make promises about when he’d be back.
He picked up his briefcase, after making sure it still had the letter—the one supposedly from Dr. Bernhard—and grabbed a cold drumstick out of the Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket at the bottom of the refrigerator. He took a bite; it was cold and greasy. Now, that was a Sunday morning breakfast. He took a minute to start coffee for when Helen got up, which she probably would the minute he pulled out of the driveway. She was just staying in bed to make a point. Then, he went out, softly closing the door and locking it—knob lock and deadbolt—and climbed into his car.
“Four years,” he said, as he started the engine. “Just four more years.”
Gordon sighed, getting into the shower. Whatever grim satisfaction there was in the idea of putting McNaney in her place was not enough to make up for the rest of the day, which looked to be long and unpleasant. Both at work and at home.
Just four more years, he thought, turning on the hot water. Just four more years.
He showered quickly and got dressed. Helen was still in bed. When he kissed her head softly, she grunted. “Go,” she said. “Go now and get back. Don’t stay there all day.”
“I’m not planning on it,” Gordon said, opening the bedroom door.
“That means you’ll be gone all day,” Helen said, turning over so she was facing away from the door. Away from Gordon. “Go on. The longer you stand there like a damn fool, the longer before you get back. Go.”
“Be back soon,” Gordon said—not so entirely sure himself that would actually be the case—and stepped out into the hall. He poked his head into Emily’s room. She was still asleep. He kissed her on her forehead, hating his job again. Absolutely despising it. Wishing he had gone into retail sales, or perhaps sanitation, instead. Then, he listened at Jeff’s door—he could hear him playing some sort of video game on his Atari and decided just to go ahead and leave—he didn’t want to have to explain to Jeff that he had to leave. Or have to make promises about when he’d be back.
He picked up his briefcase, after making sure it still had the letter—the one supposedly from Dr. Bernhard—and grabbed a cold drumstick out of the Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket at the bottom of the refrigerator. He took a bite; it was cold and greasy. Now, that was a Sunday morning breakfast. He took a minute to start coffee for when Helen got up, which she probably would the minute he pulled out of the driveway. She was just staying in bed to make a point. Then, he went out, softly closing the door and locking it—knob lock and deadbolt—and climbed into his car.
“Four years,” he said, as he started the engine. “Just four more years.”
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